


say the word (& I'll be your renaissance man)

by liadan14



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Anal Sex, Athletic Sex, Bottom Nicky topping from the bottom, But Nicky is also following Joe because he's a thirst trap, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, He wishes people would talk to him about his poetry and art instead of his abs, Homophobia, Identity Porn, Joe has a fitness instagram, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, M/M, Mentioned Quynh | Noriko, Mutual Pining, Mutual Pining While Dating, Nicky is people, Oral Sex, Racism, Shower Sex, for about 0.2 seconds, if you spot Booker kudos to you, instagram au, mentioned switching, racism and homophobia tags are for experiences Joe has due to working online, service top Joe, they don't play a major role in the story, who is not good at talking about that up front
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29508273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liadan14/pseuds/liadan14
Summary: Finally, nearing the bottom of the notifications, Joe spots a new commenter. He gets a handful of new followers most days, but they usually either lurk or have been commenting for ages already. This guy isn’t a new follower, and Joe hasn’t seen him comment before. A quick glance at his profile shows that he is following Joe, and has been for a while - he likes almost everything Joe posts. He’s never said anything before, though.This guy, @dj_nova, has commented,Excuse me, is that a quote from Inferno?below Joe’s deadlift video.“Yes!” Joe cries out, sitting up in bed.OR: The one where Instagram fitness and lifestyle thirst trap Joe Al-Kaysani has a problem in that he becomes incredibly tongue-tied around a very cute barista at his favorite café even though he really wants to discuss medieval poetry with him.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 743
Kudos: 1101





	1. Chapter 1

Joe gets into Instagram because of Nile.

“You have to see it as a long con,” she’d told him, sweating under the fluorescent gym lights as she did squats. “You get ‘em going with your hot bod, you keep them there for the lifestyle stuff and maybe you can get them to buy your art.”

Groaning, Joe had let himself fall from the bar he’d been doing pull-ups on. “Tell me,” he’d said, “am I the con artist here, or are you? Because I was definitely not the one _posting half-naked pictures of myself on Instagram_.”

“And I said I was sorry, even though I _asked your permission and you gave it_ ,” she had said, throwing his towel at his face, “but I got, like, a thousand likes on that picture, and most of my followers don’t even like men.”

Because Joe was kind of out of breath at the time, he hadn’t told her (again) that he’d allowed her to post a picture of him without knowing what picture she’d chosen.

He doesn’t mind the attention, not really. If he did, he wouldn’t have started his own account (@al-tayyib, remember to like and follow, fellow health enthusiasts!). He wouldn’t have become that asshole who brings a tripod to the gym to rest his cell phone on while he exercises if he _minded_ being “thirsted over” on the internet. It’s just kind of weird.

Before, he’d been thinking about getting a side job as a bartender, or maybe he could ask at the coffee shop he spends every other afternoon at, except then he would have to go to work at the crack of dawn and unfortunately, night is his best drawing time. The truth of it is, he just wasn’t earning quite enough on art commissions alone and he’d desperately wanted quit his job as a graphic designer because his boss demanded he “buy some diverse faces on shutterstock” for the company website’s new banner and it had just been the straw that broke the camel’s back. Going freelance had only seemed feasible because he’d gotten an offer for sponsorship on Instagram. He’d figured he could eventually segue into freelancing as an artist full time, since he had kept in touch with clients, but it’s been hard. If he didn’t have the Instagram gig, he probably wouldn’t even be able to afford the gym at all.

Apparently, now, it’s actually tax deductible.

Still, waking up at eleven AM after one of the most rewarding nights he’s had in a long time, transferring a sketch of his café into oils, it’s kind of disappointing to scroll through his notifications.

“Oh yay,” he mocks to himself. “@juicy-lucy thinks my ass looks especially firm.”

He shouldn’t make fun; these people are basically paying his rent (these people and the godawful brand of protein shakes he’s shilling for this month). It’s just hard to take this seriously as a career path when he has twenty different commenters just saying _DAT ASS_. It’s probably his own fault for filming himself doing deadlifts from behind.

Oh well.

Tomorrow’s shirtless push-up day, that’s possibly more exploitative.

He lies in bed, answering the top ten most interesting comments – the people who actually want to hear about his technique, that is.

“I explained all this shit in the video,” he complains to himself as he painstakingly types out instructions to @get_shreked on how to do a deadlift without destroying your back. He can’t be responsible for some kid hurting himself trying to copy what Joe was doing.

Finally, nearing the bottom of the notifications, he spots a new commenter. He gets a handful of new followers most days, but they usually either lurk or have been commenting for ages already. This guy isn’t a new follower, and Joe hasn’t seen him comment before. A quick glance at his profile shows that he is following Joe, and has been for a while - he likes almost everything Joe posts. He’s never said anything before, though.

This guy, @dj_nova, has commented, **_Excuse me, is that a quote from Inferno?_** below Joe’s deadlift video.

“Yes!” Joe cries out, sitting up in bed.

 _I was wondering if anyone would catch that,_ he responds, thumbs flying on the keyboard. He hadn’t been, actually, he just likes to quote his favorite poems in his more straightforward workout videos, the ones where he’s not talking about cooking or other aspects of health living or what being gay and Muslim in Great Britain is like these days while working out. He gets bored, alright? So far, no one’s caught his citations. He’d actually thought it was pretty cheesy, to start his third rep with the line, “ _We must go deeper into greater pain_ ”, so it tracks that that’s the one someone picks up on.

He sets his phone aside, grinning, and goes to take a shower. It’s his cheat day, which is always nice. Maybe he’ll get a few more good painting hours in tonight, and until then, he’s going to treat himself at the café.

If he’s really, really lucky, the cute barista will be working today.

While he’s waiting on his coffee and bagel, his phone pings again. It’s @dj_nova, back to say **_That’s my favorite quote. It’s much better in Italian, of course._**

“ _That’s_ your favorite quote?” Joe mutters to himself while the cute barista is in the back, toasting the bagel. Then he goes ahead and types it.

He slides his phone back in his pocket just in time to meet cute barista’s pretty eyes and thank him for the coffee.

It’s possible the painting Joe started last night features him and his eyes and the sweep of his hair over his forehead fairly prominently. But it’s not Joe’s fault he’s the best thing about the café. He’s just so steady. He barely talks, which Joe can’t understand, because when he does, his voice is so soft. He always smiles at his customers, even the rude ones, and he never forgets to give Joe a little sprinkle of cocoa powder on top of his milk foam.

Not that Joe is a total creep, stalking this guy at work or anything, and not that he intends to put hot barista in the uncomfortable position of being asked out by a regular client at work, or, god forbid, letting him know that Joe refers to him in his head as _cute barista_.

He just has a great profile for painting, that’s all.

Today, he meant to mock up a few more logos for his website and work on his LinkedIn profile, just to beef up his resume a little. He toys with signing up for StepStone and trying to find a real job, but Instagram is still feeding him this month and he just can’t face another Stephen Merrick, telling him to pull his weight and that he only got the job to fill up the diversity quotient.

Thinking about it sidetracks him, and by two PM, he looks up from his tablet to discover that cute barista refilling his coffee. Hurriedly, Joe covers the tablet, where he has, of course, been drawing that profile again. He can’t help it. It’s the nose, it’s just so striking. And that mole. And the little sliver of mirth in his eyes when he says, “Don’t worry, Joe, I won’t peek.”

“You know my name?” Joe asks stupidly. Obviously cute barista knows his name. He just said it.

Hot barista smiles at him. “I wrote it on your coffee cup yesterday.”

Oh right. Joe had forgotten his reusable to-go cup yesterday, and he’d been in a hurry to get his caffeine fix after working out so he hadn’t gone home for it.

“Well,” he says. “I’m at a disadvantage then. Would you even the playing field and tell me your name?”

 _Fuck,_ he reminds himself. The man is working. No flirting.

“Nicky,” Nicky tells him. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No, thank you, Nicky,” he says. “Gotta watch my figure.”

He never used to count calories this much before the Instagram gig, and it’s probably the worst part.

Nicky makes some sort of noise in his throat, but when Joe looks up at him, he’s already moved on to the next table.

In an effort to distract himself from probably his worst effort at human communication to date, Joe opens his phone. There’s a new notification from @dj_nova.

 ** _Why?_** he asks. **_What’s yours?_**

On a whim, Joe clicks on his profile again.

It’s locked, which isn’t much of a surprise. The one public image is of an alleyway under streetlights, snow falling over trash containers that somehow look almost romantic in the yellow glow, backed up against brick. It looks oddly familiar.

He can take a chance, he thinks, and opens up a direct message to @dj_nova. _My favorite Inferno quote is_ , he writes, and then presses send so he doesn’t lose his nerve.

Below that, he writes out the lines he considered getting tattooed on his ribs over and over again when he was in undergrad and never quite followed through:

_Amor, che a nullo amato amar perdona,_  
_Mi prese del costui piacer sì forte,_  
_Che, come vedi, ancor non m'abbandona_

The lines aren’t shocking or anything. They haven’t been for a couple centuries by now. Still, they strike something so sensitive within Joe that he doesn’t want to post them in public. Joe studies the sent message, wondering if it’s too revealing for a stranger on the internet.

There’s a crash from the kitchen behind the counter.

Joe starts, forgetting his phone.

There’s no one else in the coffee shop.

“Nicky?” He calls tentatively. “Nicky, are you alright?”

There’s a groan. Then Nicky calls, “Fine! I’m fine.”

“Do you need help?”

The pause before Nicky says, “No,” is so long that Joe’s halfway to the kitchen already.

Nicky’s sitting on the floor, clutching his hand, next to a baking tray full of the cranberry-walnut-chocolate-chip cookies Joe had desperately wanted to eat one of but hadn’t because his literal job is to look pretty.

“Nicky,” Joe gasps.

“It’s alright,” Nicky says. “Just a little burn.”

“A little burn,” Joe repeats, aghast. “Where’s your first aid kid?”

Nicky gestures towards the sink, pulling himself up.

“Sit down,” Joe tells him firmly, pointing Nicky towards the stool. “Why are you all alone here, anyway?”

“It’s my café,” Nicky tells him, cradling his burnt hand. “If in doubt, it’s always my shift.”

Joe doesn’t say, _but what if I hadn’t been here, what if you’d hurt yourself and been all alone?_

It probably reads on his face, though, because Nicky grimaces. “It was my own fault. I was looking at my phone, I should have been paying attention.”

“Absolutely,” Joe agrees, and gestures to Nicky to hold out his hand.

He wipes the burn carefully with antiseptic on a cotton swab, trying to ignore how Nicky winces, and then spreads on burn cream before bandaging him carefully. He’s not thinking that Nicky’s hand is cradled in his, he’s definitely not thinking that Nicky’s hands are so big, that he must be so strong from kneading dough or whatever it is he does back here.

“Joe,” Nicky says, almost breathless.

“Hm?” Joe asks, focussed on his task.

“Will you go out with me?” Nicky asks.

Joe drops his hand.

“Sorry,” Nicky winces. “Sorry, that was inappropriate, I shouldn’t have--”

“Yes,” Joe says desperately. “Yes, I’ll go out with you, name the day and I’ll be there.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes--” Joe starts, and then has to say, “Fuck, no, I can’t, Tuesday?”

Tomorrow’s half-naked push-up day, and he can only get that right if he starves himself all day and doesn’t drink any water and gets incredibly crabby by late afternoon, at which point he looks enough like he’s on steroids to film. He's enough of a disaster around Nicky without adding his usual post-filming loopiness.

“Tuesday,” Nicky agrees with one of his little smiles. “I’ll try to not be on shift. Meet me here at six?”

“At six,” Joe says stupidly.

He has to leave the café right after, because there are other customers and he can’t stop himself from staring at Nicky like a lovesick idiot and disrupting his business.

That night, he finishes the painting. He gives the Nicky in the painting that charming little half-smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the "palate cleanser" "short silly AU" I was going to write in like a day that is now looking to be at least 10k. It will probably be 3 chapters, possibly 4. The explicit bits will be towards the end and I will update tags then.
> 
> One translation of Joe's favorite Inferno lines is:  
>  _Love, which absolves no one beloved from loving,_  
>  _seized me so strongly with his charm that,_  
>  _as you see, it has not left me yet._
> 
> It's from the lust circle of hell, where the woman in question talks about falling in love and (obliquely) having sex instead of reading edifying books. For this sin, she gets to spend eternity being pushed around by incredibly strong winds, unable to see the man she loves.
> 
> The title is from The Fratelli's _Sugartown_ , which is very much a song about thirsting after someone and also includes the very important line, _if you just can't do me right, please, do me wrong_.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://bewires.tumblr.com), feel free to come talk to me


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Joe experiences racist harassment on Instagram in this chapter. It's not a major plot point, but it does happen towards the beginning.

Monday is about as awful as Joe had imagined it. By four PM, he’s starving and kind of dizzy, but his abs look fantastic after eighty percent of his workout is done, when he whips off his shirt for the camera, grins his most sociopathic grin and sets to work doing push-ups. He does a round of chin-ups after, talking about technique as he does it in the futile hope someone will learn something.

Hypocritically, he adds, “If you’re working yourself this hard, remember to hydrate. Building and maintaining muscle is hard work for your body and you need fuel. Tomorrow, I’ll be posting some of my favorite post-workout meals.”

In real life, Joe’s favorite post-workout meal is an entire pizza, eaten by himself. 

The Instagram persona he’s created is a big fan of eggwhite omelettes and boiled chicken. God, Instagram Joe is such a dick.

After working out, he’s so tired and nauseous he can’t even eat right away. He ends up napping on the couch for an hour and then eating a mix of eggs, tomatoes and bell peppers that barely qualifies as a meal straight out of the pan in front of TV at eight PM. 

He could be out with Nicky right now. 

He could be staring into those changeable eyes, holding his big hands, feeding him pasta…

“Fuck, Joe,” he mutters to himself. “Are you craving sex or carbs?”

Probably it’s neither. 

Probably he’s craving that little smile of Nicky’s he’s been eyeing for months now.

Probably he’s craving real human companionship.

He thumbs open his lockscreen idly and tabs over to Instagram, which is about the furthest thing from what he’s craving, but it will have to do for now.

Lots of fire emojis in his inbox. One asshole obnoxiously critiquing his form. The other commenters seem to have him well in hand, so Joe doesn’t bother. He does instantly block the guy asking if he’s compensating for his tiny Arabian dick. “I’m Dutch, you asshole,” he mutters to himself. 

He did a whole spiel in one of his first videos, about how he’s Dutch and his background is Moroccan, and how healthy living in body and mind describes the middle ground he’s found to honor his heritage while having grown up European. He doesn’t keep halal as purely as he could, he doesn’t stick to salat at all and if he’s being brutally honest, he’s a little shaky on shahadah, but he gives to charity whenever he can and he takes care of himself and the people he loves. It’s one of the things that makes the Instagram gig bearable: a lot of his videos are about health and how to keep your body and your mind healthy.

It’s one of his least-watched videos.

@dj_nova liked it.

He’s learned, since then, to sneak the mental health tips into the especially shirtless videos. It’s a long con, after all.

Finally, Joe tabs over to his DMs. He’s been putting it off, because @dj_nova’s last response was so disheartening. He’d said, **_if I’m being honest, I never liked that part._**

Joe had been crushed, but he had to ask why.

The answer, he finds, is worth the worry.

**_Francesca didn’t do anything wrong. She just fell in love. It seems unfair, that she should spend eternity in hell, when I wish I could feel the same._ **

Joe rolls onto his back, cheeks burning. Why, he doesn’t know. It’s really not at all shocking. It was written something like eight hundred years ago. He needs to get over himself.

 _I guess I don’t think about it in context much, anymore,_ he writes back. _Just those words. I wish I could feel like that, too._

It’s only minutes later when @dj_nova answers: **_Crossing my fingers for you. You deserve it._**

Joe can’t think of a response. He falls asleep clutching his cell phone, and it feels a lot better than any of the last twelve times he did that.

The next day, he films himself making a spinach and eggwhite scramble with some cheddar in it to make it even vaguely edible.

“Look,” he tells the camera seriously. He’s wearing a blue T-shirt he’s been told makes him look especially handsome by about thirty women on Instagram. “This is the stuff I make to stay healthy, but your body’s not just there to be shaped. It’s also your home. Make sure to treat it well. Sometimes that means being good and having egg whites for lunch. Sometimes that means doing what makes you happy. If you’re only feeding yourself things that make you sad, you’re going to give up eventually and rebound into your worst, most comforting habits. So make sure to reward yourself. For example,” he smiles, “I’m going out to dinner tonight.”

By six, he’s changed three times and then finally gone back to the blue T-shirt, and he’s been pacing in front of the café for five minutes, which turns out to be a really stupid idea because storefronts are, in fact, transparent.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Nicky says as he comes out.

“I wasn’t waiting,” Joe lies.

Nicky raises his eyebrows pointedly at the glass door. And windows.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Joe smiles sheepishly. “I’ve been thinking about this a while,” he admits. 

He’s rewarded for his honesty with one of Nicky’s little smiles. “Good,” Nicky says.

Fuck, this man.

“So,” Joe says. “Where are we going?”

Nicky lifts up the picnic basket Joe hadn’t noticed, too busy being embarrassed.

“I thought -- well, maybe we could sit in the park?” He offers, as if it would be no problem to entirely change his plans now that he’s packed an entire basket of food. 

“That sounds lovely,” Joe tells him.

“Just, one thing, Joe?” Nicky says, looking over at him as they walk towards the park. 

“Hm?”

“I’m dee jay nova,” Nicky says. It’s matter of fact, clear, and Joe still doesn’t understand. “On Instagram? I wouldn’t want to start this evening under false pretenses.”

“Oh,” Joe says. The facts are slow to catch up to his brain. Maybe it’s just that he’s hungry. “ _Oh_. Oh, no.”

Nicky halts and turns toward him. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have told you earlier, it was just--”

“No, not that,” Joe interrupts. “I don’t mind, we’d just barely started talking on Instagram, how could you have even told me earlier? It’s just embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing,” Nicky repeats slowly.

“Yeah,” Joe says. “I mean, you run your own successful business, and there I am, taking my shirt off on Instagram. I was hoping to have more of a chance to charm you before having to admit that’s how I’m currently making money.”

“Ah,” Nicky says, blowing a breath out slowly. “I thought you meant-- it’s not embarrassing, Joe. I don’t think so.”

It is, Joe knows it is, but it’s kind of Nicky to say. 

It’s even kinder of him to have made dinner.

He has a picnic blanket balanced on top of the basket, folded into a neat little square and secured with velcro. It’s tartan on one side and covered in some sort of shiny silver material on the other. Joe’s reasonably certain he has something like that to put over the windshield of his car in winter.

“Wow,” Joe says, hands stuffed in his pockets. “You do this a lot?”

Nicky smiles over at him as he unfolds the blanket. “I wish,” he says. “Britain is strange. They keep talking about picnics on television, but I’ve never been to one.”

“Me neither,” Joe admits. “So this is very exciting. Are there scones?”

“And clotted cream.”

“Wow. The full treatment. Can I help?”

Nicky shakes his head. “Sit down and look pretty.”

Joe settles on the blanket, legs stretched out and leans back on his elbows. “Acceptable?”

From the look Nicky shoots him as he unloads the picnic basket, Joe thinks it might be, but Nicky doesn’t say anything.

“For a man with no picnic experience, you are very prepared,” he can’t help but point out, needled by Nicky’s nonchalance.

Nicky’s lips purse. “I moved here six years ago,” he says. “And since then, I have been invited to I think fifty barbecues?”

Joe props himself up. “Yes,” he says. “All summer long, every time there is even one ray of sunshine.”

“And you have to bring your own food and sit on the ground,” Nicky continues. “I got very tired of grass stains.” He gestures to the blanket, as if to say, _ta-da!_

“To be fair,” Joe points out, “it might be our age group. Were you a student, when you moved?”

Nicky nods. “Culinary school.” 

“Me too,” Joe sighs, leaning back again. “Art and graphic design. All my friends are broke, none of us have gardens, or garden furniture to sit on. Barbecues in the park it is.”

There’s a twitch to Nicky’s lips that might almost be another smile. “I wouldn’t mind so much if it were at least good,” he says. “But it’s all just overly marinated pork and bad sausages.”

Joe’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’d think culinary students would be better at it.”

“You spend all day cooking for school, you don’t want to cook all night.”

“Fair.” 

Conversation trails off as Nicky lays out dinner. There are scones, and clotted cream and jam, and those little finger sandwiches Joe has been informed British people eat but he’s never actually seen. There’s a thermos full of something, and two bowls, fresh vegetables and a dip that smells of herbs and garlic. Best of all, there’s a plate of cheeses, and bread so fresh Joe can smell it. 

“Did you make all this?” He asks.

Nicky nods. “Well,” he adds. “I bought the cheese.”

“You’re not a cow,” Joe answers absently, staring at the spread, amazed that Nicky would go to so much trouble for him.

A choked noise draws his attention away from the block of soft, white cheese, the kind Joe absolutely loves but almost never buys for himself in a bid at self-control.

Nicky’s red-faced, holding back laughter, and that is perhaps Joe’s first success of the evening. Getting the man to laugh at him. Dubious at best.

“I’m not a cow?” Nicky asks, clearly still trying to choke back his laughs.

“I just meant I hadn’t expected you to make your own cheese,” Joe attempts. “I hadn’t expected you to make anything at all. Especially when you cook all day for work, this is really-- really--”

“I’m glad you think so,” Nicky says. He’s calmed down somewhat, but his eyes still betray his mirth.

“Ugh.” Joe digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m terrible at this, you’re very handsome and very nice and I think cows are lovely animals, can we just start over?”

“I don’t know,” Nicky says thoughtfully. “I’m not sure anymore if you intentionally compared me to a cow or not.”

“Not intentionally,” Joe hastens to tell him. “They do have very soulful eyes, and so do you, and they provide invaluable services to humanity, as do you, and--”

He looks over at Nicky and realizes he is being absolutely trolled, because Nicky is once again doing a very poor job at not laughing.

“Joe,” Nicky says, and bless him, he sounds warm and kind. “Do you drink?”

“Right now, I think I’d better,” Joe groans.

Finally, finally, he gets to hear Nicky laugh. It’s low and melodic and almost worth Joe having made an absolute fool of himself. 

He sits up properly and takes the proffered glass of wine. “Thank you for asking,” he says. “A lot of people forget.”

“Is there anything here you can’t eat?” Nicky asks.

Joe shrugs. “I don’t really avoid much. I do steer clear of pork, but I’m not exactly what you’d call devout. I just don’t like how it tastes and I wouldn’t want to confess to my mother that I know that.”

“I gave it up once, for Lent,” Nicky says. “It tasted incredibly strong, after a month without.”

“So you’re…” Joe begins, hoping Nicky will finish. When he doesn’t, Joe tries for, “Christian?”

“Catholic,” Nicky says. “But I’m not exactly what you’d call devout, either.”

“Catholic,” Joe repeats. “That’s like Anglican, but the priests can’t get married, right?”

Nicky looks so incredibly insulted for a second that Joe almost wants to play it off as a joke, like he knows better, but, well, he doesn’t. “Sorry,” he says.

“No, no,” Nicky waves him off. “I suppose that’s apt. You’re from the Netherlands, right?”

Joe blinks.

“You said it on Instagram, once,” Nicky says, not meeting his eyes. “Sorry, is that--”

“No, that’s fine,” Joe tells him, even if it is weird. 

“People are mostly Protestant there,” Nicky says. “So I guess the Anglicans look pretty Catholic. By comparison.”

“Yeah,” Joe says. “Full disclosure, at school, I switched out of religion classes and into philosophy as soon as I could. I don’t really know much about all of…” he waves his hand around to indicate Christianity in general.

“Why should you?” Nicky asks. “I had to google what foods you might not be able to eat.”

Joe is unbearably touched that he made the effort, and takes a sip of his wine to hide it. 

“So,” Nicky says. “Would you like some stew?”

Joe would, and they eat for a while, mostly in silence, interrupted occasionally by Joe’s praise.

It’s starting to get dark around them already, so Joe’s not entirely sure whether Nicky’s cheeks are flushed from the compliments or the wine or if it’s just a trick of the light. Joe’s given himself permission, tonight, to eat as much as he wants, and the nice thing about the picnic format is that they can just sit together, enjoying the fading sunlight and nibbling whenever they want.

“I was skeptical about these,” Joe admits, holding up one of the tiny cucumber sandwiches, “but they’re actually really pleasing.”

“I think it’s the crunch,” Nicky agrees. He’s leaning back on his elbows, now, looking up at the sky. “And the format. Eating tiny things is so satisfying.”

“When you have enough,” Joe agrees. “Do you cook everything at the café yourself?”

“Yes,” Nicky says. “At least right now. Maybe, if I gain more traction…”

“I don’t think I’ve said this, yet,” Joe says, rolling onto his back as well. “But I really admire what you do, there.” The café is Joe’s favorite not only because the food is amazing and Nicky works there, it’s his favorite because it operates on a pay-what-you-can basis. There are suggested price ranges for each item on the board, but if you can’t pay anything at all there will still be a hot meal and a drink for you. More than once, Joe has seen someone clearly homeless come in and be treated with the same respect and kindness Nicky treats him. The leftovers at the end of the day, Nicky donates to soup kitchens.

“Thank you,” Nicky says. “I think it’s the way forward. The future has to be more kind, more caring than whatever we have now.” 

The sky is beautiful tonight, sun setting in riotous oranges and pinks, leaving behind violet and deep blue and crisp, clear stars. “I hope you’re right,” Joe says. “The world would be better with more people as kind as you.”

They’re both silent for a while, staring up at the sky.

Nicky’s voice is quiet, but it carries well when he says, “I never thought I’d find such beauty in Cardiff.”

 _I was thinking the same thing about you,_ Joe wants to say but doesn’t dare.

Instead, he reaches over in the near-dark of twilight, keeping his arm high enough to not drag in the cheese, until he can touch Nicky. He reaches Nicky’s hair first, and it’s soft, the strands slipping through his fingers like gossamer. Nicky shifts, and Joe holds his breath, but then he tilts his head into Joe’s touch.

Nicky walks him home, which is kind of silly because it’s so old-fashioned and Joe can take care of himself. He holds Joe’s hand the entire way, and Joe loves every second of it.

“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” he says at the door. “I hope you’ll consider seeing me again even though I’m an idiot who talks about cows.”

Nicky is just an inch or two shorter than him. Joe can feel the warmth of his exhale against his neck as Nicky turns to press a whisper-soft kiss to his cheek. “I’d love to see you again,” he says.

Joe has Nicky’s cell phone number, they exchanged those yesterday. 

For some reason, lying in his bed in the dark, Joe opens Instagram instead and sends a follow request to @dj_nova, before messaging him.

 _I wanted to say, before,_ he types, _that looking into your eyes makes me feel like I’ve been seen down to my very marrow. I wanted to beg your forgiveness for my tongue tying itself into knots, but your beauty struck me dumb. Your kiss will haunt my dreams, and I already regret not finding out if you taste as sweet as you look._

Nicky accepts his follow request almost immediately.

In the context of his timeline, Joe quickly understands that the alley that seemed so familiar on his Instagram is the alley beside the café, an image Nicky posted just after opening it. The image links to the café’s official Instagram, which Joe also follows.

Nicky doesn’t have a lot on his personal page, which leaves Joe with very little to do except stare at pictures of food on the café’s page. Normally, this would be an exercise in frustration, but for once, he’s not hungry. Because Nicky cooked for him.

Finally, @dj_nova writes back.

 ** _Please tell me I can see you again soon,_** he writes, and Joe has to hide his face in the pillows for a moment for sheer joy. **_I may go mad with wanting._**

 _Tomorrow?_ Joe types.

**_Seems like forever._ **

_I know hayati, but it’s the best I can do. If it would make the earth turn faster, I’d run all night so I could see you again sooner._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as fun as identity porn is, I could not imagine a scenario in which Nicky, knowing who Joe is, would continue the ruse. Plus, I was more interested in the thing I'm trying to do with the digital part. Sorry.
> 
> Also upped the chapter count. It may yet go all the way up to seven. We shall see. 
> 
> salat = praying five times a day, shahadah = acknowledging Allah as the one God you believe in. These are two of the five pillars of Islam, another one Joe mentions but doesn't name is giving alms. If I screwed up describing Joe's heritage/religion/feelings about it, please let me know. I am very white and I make lots of mistakes which I am happy to talk about and fix. I probably definitely took some liberties about British barbecuing culture here, so sorry about that. 
> 
> tenjoura on tumblr made this [fantastic piece of fanart](https://tenjoura.tumblr.com/post/643376420291264512/modern-au-super-hot-joe), which, if you like this story, will be relevant to your interests. The story and the fanart have absolutely nothing to do with each other in conception except that they apparently exist in the shared fandom hivemind AU, I've never met tenjoura, but I wanted to give them a shoutout here because the stars aligned perfectly for us to both post Instagram!hottie!Joe content on the same day independently of each other.


	3. Chapter 3

Joe’s favorite workout days are when his and Nile’s times match up. She has evening classes a lot, because she’s insane and likes that, so Wednesdays are currently Joe’s favorite posting days, because Nile only has one class, and it's late, so she can come to the gym to film him. She talks to him, too, which means he doesn’t have to go quoting Europe’s best poets to entertain himself and his audience.

“So,” she starts today’s video, holding Joe’s phone steady while he punches at a boxing bag. He had a low-fat plain yoghurt this morning, as well as a glass of water, and he and Nicky killed that bottle of wine last night, so he’s wearing his shirt. “You went out to dinner last night.”

“Yeah,” Joe says, unable to hide his smile entirely.

“Without me,” Nile sighs. “Andy, are you hearing this? He went out for dinner. Without us!”

“A travesty,” Andy calls from the reception-desk-slash-smoothie-stand. How she manages to project her voice clear across the gym while sounding dry as a bone, Joe will never know. It’s her gym. Maybe she installed some sort of secret megaphone.

Nile circles him with the camera, allegedly to get more angles, clearly to spy on his expression instead. “Who were you with, Yusuf?”

Joe doesn’t answer, punches harder instead.

She’s fast, though, sneaky, and before he can stop her, she’s on his other side. “Was it a booooy?” She asks.

“Maybe,” he admits, unable to hide his grin.

“Oooh,” Nile crows. “What’s his name?”

“Not sharing that to strangers on the internet,” Joe says. 

“Fair. Is he cute?”

Joe bites his lip, trying to smile a little less. “ _So_ cute.”

“C’mon,” Andy yells from her desk. “I let you film in here because your videos are educational, remember, Yusuf?”

“Oh, come on, Andy,” Nile calls back. “Tell me you’re not curious.”

Andy doesn’t respond, which, for her, is basically agreement.

Nile proceeds to ask Joe a series of highly personal questions he can’t answer, knowing that Nicky’s probably going to hear everything he says, and his face goes far more hot and flushed than punching a boxing bag would normally achieve.

"He owns a café," is all Joe tells her. "And he's a wonderful cook."

"Oooh," Nile crows, and then asks Joe what base he got to, which thankfully leads her into a long explanation of the baseball metaphor and away from cross-examining Joe. Mercifully, she even refrains from repeating the question, too distracted by the fact that Joe doesn't understand baseball even a little bit.

By the time Joe is doing the signature gym asshole move of misusing his T-shirt as a towel for his sweaty face just to show off his abs for the camera (they may not look as good as they did on Monday, but still), he’s practically gotten himself under control.

Nile has to leave for her late-late class right after, so Joe is spared her ribbing and gets to take his time showering and changing in peace. Andy, though, rarely vacates her post at the gym desk unless it’s to lead her terrifying Mixed Martial Arts classes that Joe tries to stay as far away from as possible. 

The shit-eating grin she throws Joe’s way as he all-but runs out the gym is terrifying.

At least this day has one silver lining. He did say he’d see Nicky today.

“Nicky, you have to promise me two things,” Joe says as he pushes open the door to the café.

A man who is not Nicky looks back at him.

“Nicolò,” he calls toward the back. “That Instagram model is here to extort you.”

“I’m not a model--” Joe starts to defend, but before he can get out more than a word or two, the man disappears to the back as Nicky comes out, drying his hands on his apron.

For a second, Joe loses what higher brain function he once possessed, staring at those hands.

“What are you extorting?” Nicky asks.

“Promises,” Joe says. “Firstly, that if you watch the video on my page today, you will never ever talk to me about it.”

Nicky blinks. “Why?” He asks.

“Because I don’t _want_ to dig a hole deep enough to bury myself under Cardiff Bay to hide from the shame, but I will do it if I have to,” Joe retorts. 

Amazingly, now having done it several times, it is still absolutely worth making a fool of himself to hear Nicky laugh.

“What’s the second promise?”

Joe leans over the counter, as close as he dares in public. “I need carbs, Nicky. Desperately. Promise me you’ll give me some.”

When Nicky laughs hard enough, he snorts a little. Joe has to close his eyes for a moment.

“I made potato salad yesterday,” Nicky tells him, eventually, getting out a serving-sized tub. “It’s been in the fridge all day, so it’s just perfect now.”

Joe pays for it in silence, content to just enjoy Nicky’s laughter as it occasionally resurfaces.

“I know I must seem deranged at this point,” he says, taking his salad, “but can I take you out for dinner?”

“Tomorrow?” Nicky suggests. “I’m here till closing tonight.”

“Sure,” Joe says. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

“Joe,” Nicky chides. “When have I ever.”

Nicky’s potato salad is really the best, and now that Joe knows he makes all of this himself, he’s even more impressed. Normally, potato salad is the bane of healthy eating because it’s full of mayonnaise, which, to Joe, is essentially like eating the color beige and not even getting any nourishment from it. Nicky’s potato salad, though, is sharp and tangy, with vinegar and apple slices and pickles. It’s a struggle to not gorge himself on it and go back for seconds.

Joe brought his tablet, and since he’s not doing anything else urgently and he finished up on those logos yesterday, waiting on his date with Nicky, he continues the sketch he started the other day. He adds the details he remembers of their date last night, the picnic blanket and the cheese, the way the wine colored Nicky’s lips a little redder.

Time, as it does, flies. 

Before he knows it, the tall guy who was manning the till while Nicky was cooking in the back is slamming out the door with a backwards, “Night, Instagram model.”

“Not a model,” Joe mutters to himself, and checks the time. It’s nearly ten.

The display cases are empty and the coffee machine is off. 

Joe should not be here anymore.

“Nicky?” He calls. “Nicky?”

“ _Cazzo_ ,” Nicky hisses from the kitchen.

Joe’s already through the back before he can stop himself. “You didn’t hurt yourself again, did you?” He asks disapprovingly.

“No,” Nicky says. “Just a lot left to do.”

Taking a closer look, Joe can tell Nicky’s exhausted. He’s pale and his magnificent shoulders are slumped over. Even his lovely eyes seem washed-out somehow.

“Can I help?” Joe asks.

“No, it’s fine,” Nicky says instantly.

“Please?”

Nicky closes his eyes for an instant. “You could help me take out the trash,” he says.

That takes Joe about a minute.

By then, Nicky is balancing two trays of baked goods and leftovers, headed out the door.

“You’re driving to a soup kitchen now?” Joe asks, aghast.

Nicky nods wordlessly. 

“Habibi,” Joe chides. “You’re dead on your feet. Let me take you.”

Nicky hesitates for a long moment in which Joe is sure he’s overstepped. 

One of the trays he’s holding wobbles dangerously and Joe catches it, supporting it from underneath.

“All right,” Nicky says.

Joe’s car is mercifully not full of its usual detritus, because he’s been trying to not drive, both for the environment and for his bank account. It’s a good thing he lives so close to the café; it’s parked right around the block. There’s space for all Nicky’s trays in the backseat, and the sigh of relief he lets out as he settles into the passenger seat is worth the havoc it wreaks on Joe’s evening routine.

Nicky gives directions as Joe drives, softly and evenly and in exactly the amount of time Joe needs to be ready for each turn. 

“They should pay you to do one of those sat nav voices,” he jokes.

“The British don’t understand me,” Nicky demurs.

“Then they’re not trying hard enough,” Joe says, but Nicky never answers because Joe has to turn right at a busy intersection. 

The soup kitchen isn’t too far, a quarter of an hour’s drive, and with the two of them, the food is easily unloaded. By ten thirty, they’re in the car on the way back. 

Joe’s fiddling with the radio, trying to find something inoffensive that also doesn’t make his ears bleed, when Nicky reaches for his hand. “Thank you for helping,” he says. “I really needed that.”

Any attempt Joe had previously made to not smile goofily at Nicky has now been thoroughly nixed. “I’m glad,” he tells Nicky. “That I could help, I mean. Not that you needed it.”

Nicky’s eyes crinkle a little around the corners, the lines around his mouth deepening as he smiles. 

He’s really a very handsome man.

He keeps Joe’s hand in his for the rest of the drive. Joe doesn’t even mind that he has to listen to Ariana Grande for four solid minutes.

Outside the café, Nicky blows out a long breath through his mouth as he locks up after he and Joe have returned his trays to the kitchen. 

“Are you okay to get home?” Joe asks, and then wants to stab himself with a fork because it sounds like a transparent ploy to get Nicky back to his.

Not that he wouldn’t want that.

“I live just upstairs,” Nicky yawns.

“Good,” Joe sighs in relief. “Wouldn’t want you getting into an accident.”

Nicky reaches out and traces one of his big hands down the line of Joe’s jaw, scratching through his stubble. He leans in close while Joe is still processing (hand! Nicky’s hand! on his face!) and brushes his dry lips against Joe’s.

“Dinner tomorrow?” He asks.

“Uh-huh,” Joe agrees, strangled.

“Pick me up at six,” Nicky instructs, and then he’s gone.

“Fuck,” Joe says to no one. 

“Fuck,” he repeats to his steering wheel as he slides back into his car.

“Fuck,” he whispers to himself as he shuts his apartment door behind himself.

He spends the next hour sketching Nicky (again), by hand this time instead of on his tablet. He’s only distracted by the ping of his cell phone, resting haphazardly on the edge of his desk.

There are approximately shit-squillion replies to the video Nile posted without allowing him to see it first, most of which are heart-eyes emojis and almost none of which are outright homophobia, which is nice. Joe scrolls through them haphazardly before clicking on the enticing red notification that he has DMs.

@dj_nova writes, **_sorry for breaking my promise, but you should never be ashamed for telling the whole world you think I’m cute. I’m honored._**

Joe sets down his pencil and tries to breath.

 _This afternoon, I thought you were cute,_ he responds. _Then I heard you laugh (at me, which was understandable), and now I know you’re the most beautiful man on the face of the earth._

He doesn’t need to wait long for Nicky’s response.

 ** _I’m sorry,_** it reads, **_have you not looked in a mirror recently? Have you somehow not noticed that your entire existence is unfair? It took me months to ask you out because I was so blinded by your smile. I nearly had a heart attack the first time you turned it on me._**

 _I would never have guessed,_ Joe writes back. _I feel like a bumbling idiot around you, just basking in your light._

There’s a long pause. Joe looks back to his sketch. That’s three, of the same person, in the span of a week.

**_If I give off any light, it’s because I’m standing in your reflection. If I keep coming closer, it’s because I want to bask in your warmth._ **

Leaving barely enough time for a shaky inhale, Joe responds. _I may not agree about which of us shines most brightly, but I would also like to bask. I regret every second you’re not in my arms._

For good measure, he snaps a picture of each of his sketches of Nicky and sends them as well.

When Nicky finally responds, all he says is, **_I hope you’ll hold me tomorrow._**

 _I hope so, too,_ Joe writes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo...you see what I mean about pining while dating?
> 
> Huge thank you to everyone in the comments for supporting my choice to not identity porn, appreciating how much Joe likes cows and also supplying me with so many good puns about Nicky burning himself because Joe is so hot :D
> 
> (I promise this is the last time I update the chapter count)
> 
> (Joe saying "I'm glad. That I could help, I mean. Not that you needed it." --> Mr. Bingley in Pride and Prejudice '05, saying "I'm glad that she's here. Being ill.")


	4. Chapter 4

He takes Nicky to dinner at the pub in his street. Partially, it’s because Joe really likes the ambiance - dark wood furnishings, cozy lighting, drip candles, comfortable. There’s a reason Joe likes to patronize businesses in the area he lives. He’s spent a lot of time feeling out of place; it’s nice to feel like he has a neighbourhood, a home.

Joe also chose it because he’s in no way brave enough to choose a romantic restaurant to go to with a gorgeous Italian chef. 

You can’t go wrong with fish and chips, and the pub down the road does a mean fish and chips. Not to mention their pies.

He picks Nicky up at six, manfully restraining himself from being early, and ushers him down the street.

“Are you feeling better?” He asks. “Less tired?”

“A little,” Nicky says. “Not closing up today helps.”

“Good,” Joe smiles.

“Thank you, again, for--”

“You don’t need to--”

“No, really, it was--”

“I was glad to--”

They both pause when they can’t seem to stop talking over each other. 

“So,” Joe says. “We’re not going anywhere fancy, but this is my favorite pub.”

“Oh, I’ve never been,” Nicky says as he pushes the door open. “I kept meaning to go but I never found the time.”

“Must be hard to go out when you cook literally the best food on the planet,” Joe teases, sliding into a booth.

Nicky shakes his head, hair flopping over his eyes. “I’m not a native speaker,” he says, “but I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to use the word _literally_.”

“I’m not a native speaker either,” Joe points out. “So I have creative license.”

“Is that what they’re calling it?”

They order beers and food, and while they wait, Joe peeks at the list of questions he wrote on his wrist. By now, he’s aware he’s incapable of talking to Nicky like a real human being, so he thought he would bring some help.

“Did you always want to be a chef?” Joe asks, leaning back and smiling politely at the server who brings them their beers.

He catches Nicky doing the same out the corner of his eye.

Joe’s been thinking about touching his hair ever since he did it.

He wonders if Nicky would smile like is now, earnestly grateful.

“I wouldn’t call myself a chef,” Nicky says, when they’re alone again. “I mostly bake.”

“Patissier?” Joe offers. “Owner of a charming café? Savior of my post-workout nights?”

“I have wanted to be the savior of your nights, yes,” Nicky says, taking a long sip of his beer while Joe chokes on air and tries not to imagine that in too much detail. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to tease. I always loved cooking, but I didn’t think I would do it for a living until shortly before I came to England. I thought maybe I would study religion, become an academic, or even a clergyman.”

“Oh,” Joe says. “May I ask what changed?”

Nicky shrugs. “I did. You can only spend so long stress-baking because you don’t like your studies before you realize that maybe you’re better at baking than at studying.”

“I can understand that. I was always better at the parts of my studies where I got to make things instead of the parts where I studied them.”

Nicky sets his beer glass down and licks the foam off the top of his lip. Joe follows the movement with his eyes. “Joe,” he says slowly. “May I ask...those drawings you sent me. Those are yours?”

“Yeah,” Joe says, looking down to study the grain of the table intensely. “I’m sorry if it’s a little creepy, if I’m coming on too strong, I just couldn’t…” _Couldn’t what, Joe?_ he asks himself. _Stop yourself? Help yourself?_

“Not at all,” Nicky says smoothly. “I was just very impressed.”

“You’re an excellent subject.”

There’s a brief pause.

“You’re an ale man,” Nicky observes.

Joe looks down at his drink. “Yeah,” he says. “You like porters?”

Nicky takes another sip. “Honestly, I like wine,” he says.

“You can order wine here,” Joe says, confused.

“I know, but I wanted to get in the spirit of things.”

There are condensation rings on the table where Nicky’s picked up and put down his glass. He catches a drop of it running down the side of the glass absently with his finger, and with a sudden urgency, Joe wants to feel the coolness of that drop on his neck, or on the line at his waist where his T-shirt ends.

Eventually, Joe realizes he’s been staring at Nicky’s hands for too long.

Panicked, he checks his list again. “What’s your family like?” He asks.

Nicky doesn’t answer for a long time.

When Joe dares look over at him, he’s looking down at the table, hands splayed out on the wood.

“I’m sorry,” Joe says. “Maybe that was too personal. I just. Look, Nicky, I get so tongue-tied around you, I had to write a list of conversation topics on my arm.” He shows Nicky the list, proof that he didn’t mean to be a dick.

Nicky stares at him. “Joe,” he says eventually. “Yusuf. You are...I don’t even have the words to describe you.”

“I’m sorry,” Joe repeats.

“You don’t need to apologize, you ridiculous man,” Nicky says. “I don’t speak to my family much anymore, that’s all. They weren’t very supportive of me.”

There’s really nothing Joe can say to that besides, for the third time, “I’m sorry.” Then, because that’s not enough, he reaches out and lays his hands on top of Nicky’s. “You’re a wonderful man, and I hope someday they have the chance to appreciate you.”

Unfortunately, being sympathetic puts him at a disadvantage. Nicky grabs his wrist and turns his arm over and most of Joe’s brain goes back to contemplating Nicky’s hands.

“Hm,” Nicky hums, perusing. “Career, family, where do you see yourself in five years...did you get these questions off of a job interview website?”

“I don’t think so,” Joe says. 

“What about you?” Nicky asks. “Did you always want to be an Instagram fitness model?”

“I’m not a model,” Joe says. “Also no. I guess you could call me a failed artist, if that sounds better.”

“You’re too young to have failed at anything,” Nicky responds. “And too talented.”

Joe is saved from responding by their food arriving.

"Do I really make you that nervous?" Nicky asks when Joe is halfway through his chips.

Joe nods, chewing and swallowing. "You're so beautiful," he says. "And kind, and talented, and so self-possessed."

Nicky licks the last bit of mushy peas off his fork. Joe considers, at length, that his tongue is pink and agile. "Duck mechanics," he says.

"Huh?" Joe asks, fork halfway to his mouth.

"Even though it looks like smooth sailing on the surface, underneath the water, the feet are paddling."

Joe laughs around his mouthful. 

The rest of dinner is easier. They trade top ten lists - worst customers versus worst commenters, strangest moments as an immigrant to the UK, Italian versus Dutch. By nine, Joe's a little buzzed and much more relaxed. They stroll along the streets together, walking aimlessly in each other's company until they reach the waterfront. 

The breeze is a little fresh and Joe shivers in his T-shirt. 

"Mediterranean constitution," Nicky jokes, crowding closer to Joe. He's shivering, too, but neither of them want to leave.

They're right at the rail, and Joe had a goal for tonight, so he slides behind Nicky and wraps his arms around Nicky's waist, hooking his chin over Nicky's shoulder as they look out over the water.

"Better?" Joe asks, right by Nicky's ear. 

Only a centimeter closer and he could put his mouth on the juncture between Nicky's neck and shoulder. The scent of Nicky's skin is intoxicating.

Nicky leans back into Joe's arms and Joe's heart pounds.

They walk back together. Joe's not sure who is walking whom at this point, because they live so close together. He just knows he doesn't want to say goodnight.

For long moments under the streetlight Joe noticed in that one public picture on Nicky's Instagram feed, they don't.

Joe settles his hands in the dips at Nicky's waist, kisses him slow and deep. Nicky has a firm grip on the back of Joe's neck, and despite the chill, his hands are warm. 

When their lips part for a scant second, Nicky sighs, "Joe," against his lips.

Joe is only home by midnight. 

He checks his phone as he falls into bed.

He skips all the notifications and goes straight to his messages.

@dj_nova has written, **_I wish I had asked you to come up._**

 _I wish I were there with you,_ Joe responds.

There's a pause, and then, **_Why is it so easy to admit these things here, but not to you in person?_**

Joe runs a hand through his hair. He tries to stop himself, but the words just type themselves. _I feel so good, around you, so comfortable, so natural, and it scares me to death. We've been dating three days, but I feel like I could tell you anything, here, when you can't see my face. And then I see your face and remember that I want to kiss you and hold you and be held by you and do all sorts of things to and with your body. It just feels like feeling so much, saying so much so fast would drive away any reasonable person, and I want you to stay._

While he waits, Joe has to get up and walk around. A part of him thinks, this will be it. This will send Nicky running, if the thing with the cows and the list of interview questions didn't. Another part hopes he's not wrong about Nicky.

Nicky's answer, when it comes, is euphoria.

**_Amor, che a nullo amato amar perdona,_ **  
**_Mi prese del costui piacer sì forte,_ **  
**_Che, come vedi, ancor non m'abbandona_ **

A few seconds later, he adds, _**I'm not reasonable about you.**_

_Pick me up from the gym tomorrow. We'll talk. No phones. Just us, alone, cards on the table._

_**I'll be there.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, ma, I didn't update the chapter count!
> 
> My one visit to Cardiff was a while ago, but I remember it being fairly easy to get to the waterfront.
> 
> If you're not a beer person, ales tend to be lighter and more bitter, but also more fruity while porters are dark and sweet. I think I remember there being some sort of ale/lager divide in the UK but I do not know what that's about.


	5. Chapter 5

Joe arrives at the gym to find the entire layout has changed.

“Andy?” He calls. The front desk is empty, for once.

“Joe,” she says, appearing from nowhere and nearly giving him a heart attack. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“You are?” Joe asks blankly. On good days, he’s mostly certain she doesn’t hate him.

She grins, wolfish. “I need your abs.”

Joe blinks.

“Today isn’t a shirtless day,” he says, defensive. “I haven’t prepped for it.”

She waves him off. “That doesn’t matter,” she says. “You’re still fit and healthy even when you don’t look like Wolverine.”

 _Has seen Wolverine_ , Joe adds mentally to the things he knows about Andy. _X-men fan?_ He’s been meaning to get her a thank-you gift for letting him shoot videos in her gym, and also because she’s very restful company in that she lets him talk all he wants and rarely tells him he’s being an idiot.

“If you’re sure,” he says doubtfully.

“C’mon.” She leads him over to the workout area and he trails behind her with his water bottle and towel.

At the corner of the free training area, there is now a salmon ladder.

Joe groans. “But it’s leg day, Andy.”

“Every day is your leg day,” Andy points out, which is kind of true in that Joe usually warms up with a half-hour run before he gets to the gym, or a half-hour on the treadmill if it’s raining. “Come on, you’re the only influencer I know.”

Joe recoils.

Much worse than being called a model.

He sighs. “Because I love you, Andy, I will do this for you, but if my followers all hate it, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Also you have to film it.”

“Deal,” Andy says far too quickly.

Joe narrows his eyes.

“My marketing department is after me to use my connections to promote the gym more,” Andy mutters.

“Your marketing department.” Joe’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “You mean your wife?”

Andy doesn’t respond.

“If you guys want me to plug the gym more, I’m happy to. I’ve offered--”

“I know,” Andy interrupts brusquely. “I’m taking you up on the offer. Now take off your shirt.”

“I really don’t do that until someone’s bought me dinner,” Joe teases.

“We will invite you over next weekend,” Andy grits out. “Now will you stop being difficult?”

Joe laughs. So sue him for being in a good mood, excited and antsy. “I’m doing it, I’m doing it. You have to let me do my spiel, first, though.”

He sets up the phone for her, waves hello to the camera several different ways that he can cut out later and shows Andy how to use the zoom because she’s a dinosaur who hates social media, and even gets her to introduce herself and her gym first. He cracks his knuckles as she turns the phone on him.

“Hi everyone,” he says, smiling widely. “Al-tayyib here. I’m at my usual haunt, the Labrys, and you just heard its owner, Andy. She’s a little modest, but you’ve seen it in my videos. It’s a great gym, there’s a huge variety of exercise options whether you’re focused on cardio or weights or if you want to join Andy’s army of scarily competent street warriors. If you’re ever in Adamsdown, you should check it out. And today, I’m going to show you guys how to use her new salmon ladder.”

He steps back a bit, stretches. “Now I’m warning you guys,” he says, “I’m not in my usual form. Full disclosure, my dinner last night was fish and chips and three beers, usually I’m a bit more discerning before a shirtless shoot. So, you know. Don’t judge me.” He grips his T-shirt by the back of the neck and pulls it over his head. “I also haven’t used one of these things since I was working in a gym myself.”

“I didn’t know you worked for a gym,” Andy says from behind the camera as Joe starts to stretch.

Joe leans to the left, both arms over his head. “For most of uni,” he says. “It’s expensive here in Britain. And I was studying art, so, you know. Had to prove I could earn my own way.”

“So you weren’t born looking like this, huh?” Andy asks. Joe’s known her since he moved to Cardiff. If he didn’t, he might think she’s being cruel. He can hear the warmth in her tone, though, and he feels honored to be one of the few people who can.

He stretches to the right. “I was not,” he says. “I was a gangly eighteen-year-old soccer player when I got that job, and my boss had to teach me how to use every single piece of equipment besides the treadmill and the weights. Really, I’m just paying his lessons forward, now.”

He bends down, touches his toes, relishes the pull.

“Okay,” he says, springing up again. “Let’s do this.”

He grabs the bar at eye level and hangs himself on it and oh, okay, he gets why Andy wanted him to do this one shirtless. It might even be better on a day when he’s not totally starved, because as he flexes to propel himself up to the next rung on the ladder by lifting the bar, his abs probably become visible only to disappear a little in between the movements, the way they should.

By the top of the ladder, he’s out of breath and grinning.

On the way down the other side, he’s confident enough to do tricks, flipping around on the bar so Andy can catch the flex of his back as he jumps back down. He considers rounding it off with a backflip, but there’s not enough space, and Andy probably already thinks he’s being a dick.

He hops off and spins around. “That was fun,” he tells Andy.

“Looked it,” she says. “You’ve got an audience.”

Joe’s always got an audience at the gym these days, so it takes him a second to follow the jerk of her head towards the front desk, where Nicky is waiting for him.

“Nicky!” He calls. “You’re early.”

Nicky doesn’t seem to hear him, so Joe walks over.

“Hey,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting you to come for another half hour.”

“Sorry,” Nicky says. His voice is odd, somehow, like there’s something caught in his throat.

“Are you alright?” Joe leans in closer to peer at him.

“I’m fine,” Nicky says, very quickly. “I just. I was nervous. So I thought I’d come early.”

“Okay,” Joe says. “Cool. Not that you have anything to be nervous about.”

Nicky doesn’t answer.

Joe barrels on. “So, uh, Andy was just shooting for me, I have to post that, and I would do another half hour, but I guess I could skip today.”

“I don’t want to disrupt your routine,” Nicky says quietly.

Joe nearly takes the out, nearly asks Nicky to just sit down here and wait for him, but he’s struck by how much he would hate that when he wants nothing more than to just -- talk to Nicky. Cards on the table, he reminds himself. No phones.

“I want you to disrupt my everything,” he says.

For the first time, Nicky looks directly at him and smiles weakly. “Well, then,” he says. 

“I’ll just post that video and grab my things,” Joe says.

He jogs back over to Andy and pulls back on his shirt, even if it’s gross to put back on the shirt he already ran five kilometers in before sweating like a pig on the salmon ladder. “I have to go, sorry,” he tells her. “Could you give me my phone so I can post that?”

“Already done,” she says, and when she hands over his phone, he sees it’s true. The video’s uploaded to Instagram. It’s even on his story.

He narrows his eyes at her. “I didn’t think you knew how to do that.”

“I’m full of surprises.” She says it drily, but they both know it’s true.

“Let me know what else you’d like me to film next time I’m here,” he says, picking up his workout towel to put it back in his locker. It’s not like it saw a lot of use today. She starts to protest, but he shakes his head. “No, come on, I’m here all the time, let me do nice things for you.”

She sighs. “Fine.”

Joe nods in satisfaction, slides his phone into the pocket of his shorts and runs back over to his locker to put the towel away.

"All set," he calls to Nicky, aware he's racing a little, but he's kind of scared Nicky will back out if he doesn't hurry. He seems terrified, standing by the welcome desk, very still and barely moving.

They’re already out the door by the time Joe remembers to ask - “Is it alright if I shower at home? I left my shower stuff there, it’s a pain to take on a run.”

“Sure,” Nicky says. “Are we going to yours, then?”

“I guess we kind of have to.” Joe shrugs self-deprecatingly. “I didn’t really think it through.”

“I’d like to see where you live,” Nicky says.

It’s almost the only thing he says on the walk to Joe’s apartment.

Joe’s nerves overwhelm him on the landing of the first staircase. He lives on the third floor, and he can’t handle another stair in silence. “Are you alright, Nicky? Do you not want to do this? Did I do something wrong? Because--”

Nicky cuts him off with his mouth and his hands. 

Rarely has Joe been manhandled in his life, never since he started working out as much as he does. Now, he finds himself pressed up against the wall of the tiny stairwell, Nicky’s hands running under his shirt, Nicky’s tongue in his mouth.

He pulls away to ask, to breathe - anything to make sense of the suddenness of it all, really - and then, _oh_ , Nicky’s mouth is on his neck, Nicky’s big hands are gripping his hips tightly.

Joe moans, out of control.

Nicky pulls away.

His eyes are dark with intent and it might just be Joe’s imagination, but he thinks Nicky’s accent is thicker, deeper, when he says, “I think we need to get to your apartment, Joe.”

The door isn’t even closed behind them yet when Nicky pulls off his shirt.

“You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen in my life,” Nicky says fervently, and because those hands that Joe has been thinking about far too much are running up and down his sides, thumbs tracing the lines of muscle, the cut of his hips, Joe can’t answer.

Nicky crowds in close, and his words are hushed against Joe’s ear as the door falls shut, leaving them alone in the stillness of Joe’s apartment. “You were laughing,” he says. “Out of breath and laughing and just -- the way you look, Joe, it’s amazing, but I’ve never seen you smile so much in your videos, I’ve never seen you look so soft and touchable and--”

“It’s you,” Joe blurts, arching into Nicky’s touch. “It’s you, thinking of you, it makes me joyful.”

His head knocks back into the door as Nicky kisses him.

Eventually, he regains enough of his motor functions to pop the button on Nicky’s jeans, to tug at his shirt until Nicky pulls away to strip it off. “I need to shower,” he reminds Nicky.

“Let me suck your cock,” Nicky answers.

Joe shudders all over.

“I can do it in the shower,” Nicky offers.

It turns out Joe’s knees aren’t too weak to make it to the shower, although it’s a close thing. It’s also lucky he has a joint shower and bathtub, because there’s space for both of them; for Joe to stand under the spray, to clean the sweat from his skin, to at least get his dick ready for Nicky’s mouth, even if wrapping his own hand around it to hold it under the water is an exercise in frustration. And for Nicky, to kneel down in front of him, like the specter of some dream Joe didn’t entirely dare to have. 

Nicky’s mouth is hotter than the shower. Nicky’s mouth might be hotter than the flames of hell itself, Joe’s not sure.

All he’s sure of is that he has to grip the tile wall to keep himself upright, that he groans so loud he might as well be yelling when Nicky’s lips wrap around his cock.

“So good,” he praises. “So good, Nicky, I knew it would feel so good with you, everything feels so good with you, please, please--”

He stuffs the heel of his hand in his mouth to shut himself up, but Nicky pulls away.

“Don’t you dare,” he rasps, _rasps_ , because Joe’s _cock_ was almost _down his throat_. “I want to hear you.”

“Nicky,” he moans. “Nicky, yes. Yes.”

He’s had blowjobs before, he knows he has. He’s had _better_ blowjobs, even, when his partners weren’t constantly getting trickles of water in their face from the showerhead, when he wasn’t distracted by fighting against his own knees as they threaten to give out.

He’s never been this close to the edge in mere minutes before.

Nicky’s tongue traces a clever line around the head of his cock over and over.

“You’ll make me come,” he warns. “You’ll make me come, Nicky, please, please let me--”

Nicky pulls back to suckle the head and Joe whines in disappointment.

Nicky runs his teeth up the underside softly and Joe whimpers.

Nicky swallows him down to the base and sucks intently, and Joe cries out, arching helplessly under Nicky’s hands as he comes, blood rushing in his ears so intensely it drowns out the shower. Nicky pulls back a hair too soon, the last pulse of it trickling out the side of his mouth.

Joe nearly cries at the sight.

He drags Nicky up, kisses the taste of himself from Nicky’s mouth, grabs for his cock.

“Joe,” Nicky sighs against his lips, just like he did last night under the streetlight, and Joe has to bury his face in Nicky’s shoulder, overcome. 

“You’re everything I want,” he tells Nicky’s skin. “Everything. I want you with me all the time. I want to paint you in every color there is. I want to rub your shoulders when you’re tired. I want to hold your hand in the park. I want to kiss you at the cinema. I want everything with you, Nicky--”

“Joe,” Nicky gasps again, seizing up in his arms.

“I want to fuck you just how you like it,” Joe tells him. “I want you to teach me just what you want so I can give it to you every day of your life.”

Nicky comes in long pulses, shooting out over Joe’s hip against the shower curtain. He slips, and it’s only Joe’s body pressing him tight to the wall that keeps him upright as he moans through it.

For long moments, they stay like that, Joe’s forehead pressed to Nicky’s, the water washing them both clean as they catch their breath.

“Joe,” Nicky says at last. “I think we need to have that talk now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nicky.exe has ceased to function
> 
> If you've ever seen any version of the ninja warrior show, you've probably seen a salmon ladder. If not, youtube has many videos of people attempting what Joe does here. Thanks to [wings-of-indigo](https://wings-of-indigo.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for the suggestion of Nicky bluescreening at the sight of Joe on one.
> 
> Also university in Britain is expensive when compared with the Netherlands, where Joe is from in this fic; it is not expensive when compared with the USA.


	6. Chapter 6

Joe waits for Nicky in the living room. He’s put on sweatpants and a T-shirt, because having this conversation naked seems like a bad idea. Nicky had said he needed a moment, if that was okay. He was wet and flushed when he asked, and Joe has a sneaking suspicion he’ll never be able to say no to anything Nicky asks for in any circumstance, but especially then.

It’s been at least ten minutes and the shower is still running.

With nothing better to do, Joe putters. He pours his painting water down the drain - he should have done that two days ago at least, but he’s been distracted - he organizes his brushes, he picks up the books on the coffee table and straightens the pillows on the couch. He kicks all the clothing strewn around his bedroom under the bed. It’s presumptuous of him, but also, Nicky just sucked him off in the shower, so.

“Joe?” Nicky calls from the living room. 

Joe comes out hastily and finds him in nothing but his boxer shorts, towelling his hair dry.

“Oh,” Joe says, the breath punched out of him at the sight.

Nicky looks over at him questioningly.

“If you want me to be able to talk, you might need to put on more clothes,” Joe says weakly.

Nicky looks down at himself. He frowns, and it’s a moment of déjà vu or possibly ESP, but Joe knows exactly that he is about to say, “I’m nothing special,” before he even says it.

Joe could say, _Nicky, you have the shoulder-to-waist ratio of an exceptionally symmetrical trapezoid_ , or _Nicky, I have this problem where I want to bite your skin so it looks less perfect_ , or _Nicky, you’re beautiful_.

What he says is, “You’re special to me.”

Nicky’s cheeks are flushed as he pulls on his shirt. Selfishly, Joe hopes it’s because of him.

“Would you like something to drink?” Joe asks, because that’s what you do. 

Nicky shakes his head.

They sit down on the couch, Joe with one leg up and the other on the floor so he can sit sideways and look at Nicky.

“So,” he says.

“So,” Nicky parrots.

Joe drums his fingers on the sofa cushions.

Nicky takes a deep breath, and then says nothing.

Joe has the intense urge to reach for his phone.

“How is this so hard?” He bursts out.

“I wish I knew,” Nicky says. “Maybe--can I start?”

“ _Please_.”

“I followed you on Instagram because you posted a recommendation for my café,” Nicky says. “Back in April, I think?”

Joe wracks his brain. It sounds like something he would do. He tries to promote local businesses where he can. He probably posted something for Nicky’s café early on, and then stopped when he started going more frequently, because he doesn’t actually want to run into fans in real life.

“You made a very nice post about us. And you were very genuine in the video, so I followed you. And I kept watching your videos, but…” Nicky trails off, sighing. “You seem like such a different person, in the videos. You’re so serious. Only when your friend -- Nile? -- when she’s there, you lighten up, you seem happier, and when you’re quoting something. I couldn’t figure you out. It was…” he snaps his fingers, looking for the word. “Something of an, ah, obsession? Because I’d see you every other day, and you were so nice and always smiling, and then online, you were not at all like that. I was trying to add up the pieces, between the different Joes. I didn't want to be mistaken about who you were, or I would have asked you out sooner.”

“I don’t really like a lot of the things about the Instagram gig,” Joe admits. “I have to starve myself before the shirtless shoots, and it all feels kind of wrong and exploitative. I do really like exercising and teaching people about it, but it’s become more of a job than I’d like.”

Nicky frowns. “You shouldn’t starve yourself. You’re a beautiful man, Joe, but that’s not why I’m interested in you.”

“It’s not?” Joe asks. “Because I kind of just got the impression, with the…” he waves his hand to indicate _shower blowjob_.

“I told you,” Nicky says. “You were _smiling_. You were so happy, and yes, you look amazing with your shirt off and it made me go a little crazy. I just...when you smile, I can’t help myself. I wanted to ask you out so many times when you smiled, but I wasn’t sure...I felt that, no way would this gorgeous man who has thousands of people online going crazy for each of his pictures, want me. No way would he smile like that for me.”

“You’re _everything_ I want,” Joe bursts out.

“Shh,” Nicky says, and it’s bizarrely hot. “I just want to say, I’ve been scared of telling you how much I -- like you, and it seems silly when I read your messages, but I’m not a casual person. I won’t know how to feel less for you. I’ll want everything.”

“You have everything,” Joe says, almost desperate. “I meant every word I said in the shower. I want _everything_ with you. I keep getting scared I’m coming on too strong, but you’re all I can think about. I love your cooking, Nicky, but I kept coming to the café to see you. I didn’t want to harass you in your place of work, but I had to see you. Nothing I feel about you is casual.”

Nicky reaches out and takes his hand. Joe’s eyes slide shut. “I love your hands,” he breathes out, which is only a little humiliating.

“So,” Nicky says. “Boyfriends?”

Something in Joe recoils. It must read on his face, because Nicky makes to pull away.

“No,” Joe hastens to say. “No, I mean, I want you -- exclusively, I want you exclusively, and I hope you want me that way, too, it’s just -- it doesn’t sound like _enough_.”

“Partners?” Nicky tries. “Lovers?”

Joe’s fluent enough in English to know that the latter is woefully out of date and not very sexy.

Still.

“That,” he agrees, “I want that.” Because some part of him can’t yet say it out loud, but that doesn’t make it less true. He loves. He wants to be -- maybe is? -- loved.

It is that simple and that complicated.

Nicky drags him close by their joined hands and kisses him so deeply, so tenderly, that Joe’s stomach turns molten.

"While we're being honest," Joe says as they pull apart, "I also meant the other thing I said in the shower. Teach me how to make it so good for you you'll want for nothing."

Nicky rests their foreheads together with a groan.

"While we're being honest," he says, "I don't want you to starve yourself to look like you do, I want to cook for you, and with you, and, and share your table."

It takes Joe's breath away for a moment. Share his table - it sounds domestic. It sounds permanent. 

In a whisper, Nicky continues, "But I also very much want you to use how strong you are to fuck me up against a wall."

Lust hits Joe like a sucker-punch. 

He's kissing Nicky before he can think twice, up on his knees in the space between them. He grasps Nicky by the jaw first, before his hand slips down lower, palming across Nicky's broad chest and regretting that he had forced Nicky into a shirt. 

Where his hands slide down, Nicky's slide up, one clenched in Joe's hair, angling Joe’s head how he wants it, and Joe moans. That’s what he wants. He wants Nicky arranging him so he’s just right, so he’s giving Nicky what he wants, so Nicky will stay with him. 

In short order, Nicky’s grasping arms situate Joe above him, strip him of his shirt and dip below the waistline of his sweatpants. Not to be outdone, Joe bears down, gets Nicky underneath him, gets his mouth on the expanse of Nicky’s pale, perfect neck and pulls at the collar of his too-big shirt to get more skin.

“Joe,” Nicky gasps out when Joe traces his teeth across the juncture of neck and shoulder, shivering.

For an instant, Joe pulls back to look at him. His cheeks are flushed pink, his mouth is open, his eyes are half-closed and hazy. “If you had been alive a few hundred years ago,” Joe says hoarsely, “you would have inspired every painter in Italy to greater heights.”

“I will have to live with only inspiring you,” Nicky tells him, and pulls his shirt off.

This is an excellent idea. Joe should have never told him to put it on in the first place, because now there is so much skin on offer. So much pale, perfect skin, dotted with moles, that dusting of hair across his chest...Joe buries his nose in it, delighting in the way its coarseness crinkles against his face as he presses kisses across Nicky’s sternum, as he experiments with Nicky reactions to having his nipples played with.

Positive, all around, is the verdict Joe reaches when Nicky arches against him, hissing. 

Joe’s hard in his boxer briefs all over again, as if he hadn’t come less than half an hour ago. 

This is ridiculous.

He’s twenty-eight years old. 

“How are you doing this to me?” He asks, muffled into Nicky’s skin, because he hasn’t bitten enough, hasn’t licked enough.

Nicky shudders under his hands when Joe reaches his hipbone and can’t resist sucking a hickey into the skin, peeking out where Nicky’s boxers have stretched around his erection.

“Please, Joe,” Nicky says somewhere above him. His hand is back in Joe’s hair, directing him, and Joe likes that best.

He pulls Nicky’s boxers down over his erection with his teeth, and then he suckles and licks at that too. He’s never given a guy a hickey on their dick - it seems like a monumentally bad idea - but he wants to, with Nicky. He wants to mark Nicky up, leave him with tangible proof that this happened, that Joe wants him, that Joe needs him. 

Under his hands, Nicky’s hips shift restlessly. “You tease,” he accuses, and then groans when Joe stops teasing and sucks him deep, tasting skin and smelling Joe’s own shower gel, and _fuck_ , he has to pull away immediately. He rests his forehead on Nicky’s other hip.

“You smell like me,” he groans. “Nicky, I didn’t know it was possible to want another person like this.”

“Like what?” Nicky asks, fingers carding softly through Joe’s hair.

“Like…” Joe kisses Nicky’s hip, then the head of his cock. “Like a flower wants sunlight. Like the tide wants the moon. Like it’s inevitable that I should always end up here, feeling like this, with you.”

Nicky’s hand in his hair clenches suddenly, dragging Joe up his body so they can kiss again.

Pressed together, Nicky’s bare erection against Joe’s, still clothed, Joe sobs his pleasure into Nicky’s mouth.

“I need,” Nicky gets out between clenched teeth as they pull apart, “you to fuck me. Now, Joe.”

“Yes,” Joe sighs. “Fuck, we need to -- you need to get ready. I need to find lube.”

Nicky’s eyes snap open at him. “What the fuck do you think I was doing in your shower for so long?” He asks. “Get the lube and _fuck_ me, Joe.”

Joe stumbles off the couch towards the bedroom, shucking what few clothes he was still wearing as he goes. Nicky follows behind him, presses up against his ass as Joe bends over to root through the bedside table for the lube. 

“Next time you can take me just like that,” Joe says, because he has no brain to mouth filter and it’s time he embraces it. 

Nicky groans behind him. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” he says. “If I arranged you just how I like and took what I wanted.”

Joe grabs the lube and a condom and spins around, pushing Nicky back towards the next-best wall. “I want to be yours,” he bites into Nicky’s right collarbone. “However you’ll have me.”

“I’ll have you in me,” Nicky demands. He plucks the condom out of Joe’s hand, rips it open and rolls it down Joe’s cock so slowly that Joe has to sink his teeth into the meat of Nicky’s shoulder to not scream.

When he pulls away, trying to get himself under control, Nicky looks smug.

Joe can’t have that.

He may be desperate to please, but he can give as good as he gets. He gets the pump on the lube bottle twisted around till he can fill his palm with the stuff and reaches for Nicky. “C’mon,” he says. “Get your legs around me. You want me to hold you up, you gotta help out.”

Nicky gets one leg hitched up to Joe’s hip just as Joe gets a finger in him, already loose and open from whatever he was doing in the shower. Fuck, just the concept, the very idea, that Nicky was opening himself up and cleaning himself out in the shower while Joe was waiting on him, clueless, that’s -- that’s worth revisiting. 

It becomes quickly apparent that Nicky can’t keep himself steady with Joe’s fingers inside him. The moment Joe switches to two, Nicky’s leg starts to slip as he moans.

“Oh, it’s too much for you, isn’t it,” Joe murmurs. “How are you going to take my cock like this if just my fingers has you falling for me?”

“Your job to hold me up,” Nicky slurs, but he doesn’t have the words to fight back properly because Joe just got the angle right. Nicky cries out.

“I have an idea,” Joe says, pulling his fingers out.

Nicky sobs.

Joe pulls him by the hips, away from the wall and towards the doorway. “Grab on to the bar,” He instructs.

Nicky glances up dubiously.

The chin-up bar was one of the first things Joe installed in the flat. As much as he likes the gym, there are days when you just can’t be bothered. Drilling into the ceiling was no fun, but it was worth it. 

“It’ll hold you, I promise,” Joe says. “Trust me?”

“Of course.” Nicky grabs on and Joe would like to say the warmth in his belly is all due to the stretch of Nicky’s torso, laid out in front of him like this, but it’s definitely Nicky’s lack of hesitation instead that gets to him. Nicky’s trust.

“Now, legs around me,” Joe says, and this time, it’s easier. He can hold Nicky up by his amazing ass with one hand, using the other to fingerfuck him as quick and dirty as either of them can handle, he can suck kisses into Nicky’s chest, right in front of him as he is, he can use his thighs as stabilizers.

“Fuck, Joe,” Nicky groans above him, head thrown back. “You’re so -- tell me you’re real.”

Joe can’t react at first, too focused on slipping in a third finger.

“Tell me you’re real,” Nicky begs. “Tell me I didn’t just make up some perfect man in my mind, tell me--”

“I’m real, sweetheart,” Joe tells him, sliding out his fingers and hitching Nicky up higher so he can get his cock aligned. “I’m real, I’m not perfect, remember the cows?”

“Perfect for me,” Nicky sighs, just as Joe loosens his grip just enough that Nicky can slide down on his dick.

For an instant neither of them even breath.

Joe rocks his hips up, straightening his knees.

Nicky _keens_.

Tightening his grip around Nicky’s waist, Joe starts off slow. It’s a crazy position, but it’s kind of like doing tiny little squats, bending his knees to withdraw and straightening them to fuck in again. He’s keeping Nicky up with his arms, and he’s sweating like crazy, but it’s also the most pleasurable full-body workout he’s ever had in his life. Thank god he skipped most of his gym routine today. 

Nicky hisses on an intake of breath, squirms slightly in Joe’s arms, and then tightens down around him when Joe fucks back in.

“Like that?” Joe asks breathlessly. “There?”

“Fuck, right there,” Nicky replies breathlessly. “Harder, Joe.”

It’s not an easy position to go harder in, but Joe gives it his best shot. He wants Nicky _ruined_.

“Oh,” Nicky calls out, the first time Joe manages to really rail into him. “Oh, oh, oh, cazzo, Joe, fuck, yes.”

Joe’s thighs are burning, and his cock is throbbing where he’s using all his strength to plow into Nicky, and it is worth every goddamn second of it to hear Nicky, calm, quiet Nicky, lose it like this.

“You feel so good,” Joe tells him, breathless with exertion, mindless with pleasure. “You feel so good, all wrapped around me, you’re so tight, taking me so well.”

Nicky’s only responses are curse words or animal cries. 

Joe can feel his cock, pressed between their bodies, but he can’t let go to take care of Nicky.

“I can hold you up,” he says. “Touch yourself. Make yourself feel good, Nicolò.”

“You make me feel so good,” Nicky tells him, the first coherent words he’s had in a while. 

The jolt of precome out of Joe’s dick when Nicky says it is so intense Joe almost thinks he’s coming, but the burn in his legs is too strong for him to focus enough on his dick for an orgasm now. Anyway, this is for Nicky. 

Nicky’s tense in his arms, one arm down from the bar and snaking into the scant space between them. The loss of that one hold on the bar makes Nicky sink deeper onto Joe’s cock, makes Joe’s arms ache more with the strain of holding him up. They both groan.

“Close,” Nicky gets out. “Close, more, Joe, more, please.”

Joe had been pretty sure there was no way he could do more, but he finds it in himself somehow, to move faster and harder and he’s never been this turned on for this level of exertion and he might have a heart attack or the best orgasm of his life within the next three seconds, but it’s alright, it’s fine, it’s perfect, because Nicky is clenching down around him, stuttering out these perfect little moaning sounds, spraying his come all over Joe’s chest and Joe needs -- Joe needs -- Joe needs --

Nicky lets go of the bar with his right hand as well, wraps both his arms around Joe, sighing in satisfaction. “Take me to bed,” he whispers in Joe’s ear.

Joe exists for nothing but to do as Nicky tells him at this point, so he tightens his grip, lifts Nicky up high enough that his cock slides out, even if he whines at the loss of warmth around his cock, the loss of pleasure, and stumbles over to the bed.

He’d like to say he lays Nicky out onto the mattress gently, but it’s more like a graceless tumble. His arms and legs are going numb and his cock fucking hurts with how hard he is, how desperate.

Nicky smiles up at him, flushed, beatific, legs spread wide. “Fuck me,” he says. “Take what you need.”

Joe’s shaking as he gets himself aligned again, shaking as he slides in, moaning as he buries his face into Nicky’s shoulder and jerks his hips. 

It’s probably not good, Joe does not have the control or the finesse to do anything but grind himself as deep as he will go and repeat Nicky’s name over and over again, but Nicky’s moaning for him anyway, shivering with oversensitivity.

“I’m gonna,” Joe mumbles, “gonna, Nicky, _Nicky_ ,” and then he comes so hard he can’t keep himself upright anymore, filling the condom even as his elbows and knees give out and Nicky catches him, his cock jerking over and over again inside Nicky’s body until Joe can do nothing but cry with how good it is.

Sensation returns to his body in fits and starts, first in his how sore his knees are, then in how sore his biceps are, finally in how he can barely move because his abs are fucking killing him.

With a groan, he rolls off of Nicky to the side, so he doesn’t crush the poor man. Nicky props himself up on an elbow and strokes through Joe’s hair once, before reaching down and carefully removing the condom while Joe does his best impression of a stranded starfish. 

“Mmm,” Joe groans, to indicate he’s alive, even if he can’t handle words yet.

“Joe,” Nicky says. His voice is rich and soft and Joe wants to live in it. “That was...that was amazing.”

Joe clears his throat. “It was.” He tries to sit up and immediately regrets in intensely.

“Are you hurt?” Nicky asks, worry clear in his voice.

“No,” Joe says. “Just. Sore. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

It might be a lie, he might feel worse tomorrow, but this feels like plain old overexertion, nothing torn, nothing hurt.

“Good. God, Joe, you’re -- you’re everything.” Nicky leans down to kiss him, and even if Joe did pull something, it was absolutely, totally worth it.

“I love you,” he mumbles into Nicky’s lips, and then, between one kiss and the next, he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so...that happened. probably don't try any of the described acts as home unless you're actually that strong and/or the size difference between you and your partner allows for it.
> 
> We're closing in on the end, here, only one more short chapter and the epilogue.


	7. Chapter 7

Joe wakes up around dusk. He’s disoriented, the way he always is when he sleeps too long during the day, but he’s also been staying up way too late these last few days, painting Nicky or messaging Nicky. He probably needed the rest.

Cold air wafts through the warm, cozy space he’d made in the bed, reminding him why he woke up in the first place. He groans in displeasure.

“Shh,” Nicky says from somewhere near him. “It’s alright, darling.”

Muzzily, Joe blinks his eyes open. “Nicky,” he says, delighted he’s not alone.

“Joe,” Nicky laughs. “Look at you.”

Joe stretches, yawns. “Bedhead?” He asks.

Nicky tousles his hair affectionately. “I’d say bird’s nest. Can you drink some water for me?” He hands Joe his nalgene, which had been somewhere in the kitchen. Joe drinks deeply. It helps. A lot.

So does the way Nicky beams at him. “I’m glad you’re awake again.”

“How long was I out?” Joe asks.

“Two hours or so.”

Joe winces. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you like that, I didn’t mean--”

“I was asleep as well for quite a while,” Nicky says, “don’t worry. Are you alright? It seemed like you were in pain, after.”

Joe props himself upright. It still hurts, but it’s a normal, post-intense-workout hurt. “I’m a little sore,” he says. “Nothing terrible.”

“Oh good,” Nicky says, sighing in relief. “I was worried I had really hurt you for a moment there. I’m sorry it got so intense.”

“Don’t you dare apologize for the best sex I have ever had in my life,” Joe says. “Just...also don’t expect me to be able to do that every day.”

Nicky laughs. “I don’t think I could do that every _week_ , let alone every day.”

“Your abs must be killing you, too,” Joe realizes, because it takes a lot of core strength to keep tension like Nicky did while he was balanced on Joe’s dick and fuck, he has to stop thinking about it, because if they try to have sex a third time today, Joe may very well die.

“Little bit,” Nicky says.

“Only one cure for that,” Joe says, and drags Nicky fully under the covers.

He’s still naked, he realizes, as is Nicky. He feels sleep-warm and drowsy as he cuddles up to Nicky, throws his thigh across Nicky’s hip and burrows into that bit of his neck that smells so good.

Nicky laughs.

“I love when you laugh,” Joe mumbles.

“Likewise,” Nicky tells him. “You are a...a...what’s a clinging plant?”

“Ivy?” Joe suggests. 

“Mm,” Nicky disagrees. “Ivy’s a weed.”

“I like ivy.”

“Very well, you are like ivy. When I woke up before, you were wrapped all around me.”

Joe tries very hard not to blush. “I’m a cuddler,” he says. “You’ll have to deal with that, if, uh.”

“If I am to be your lover?” Nicky asks sweetly.

Joe noses deeper into his neck. “Yes,” he hums. “That.”

Nicky’s hand scrubs through his hair. “Amore mio,” he says. 

Joe holds his breath.

“Amore,” Nicky repeats, softer.

“Do you mean that?” Joe asks.

“Did you, before you fell asleep?”

Joe closes his eyes. It’s easier, when he can’t see Nicky, to be honest -- but that is the problem, is it not? He opens them again, props himself up in Nicky’s arms, so he can look into Nicky’s lovely eyes and say, “I meant it. I love you. I know it’s insane, it’s too soon--”

“I love you.”

The corners of Nicky’s eyes are crinkled into little laugh lines. The sides of his mouth are turned upwards just a little bit. Nothing in his face belies what Joe just heard come out of his mouth, but--

“You love me,” he repeats.

“I love you,” Nicky agrees, and cranes up to give him a single kiss.

Joe has to bury his face in Nicky’s neck for joy.

“I used to wonder if there was something wrong with me,” Nicky says, face turned so he can bury it in Joe’s hair. “I could never work up the intensity -- the feeling -- I dated, but it never felt like this. It never felt right.”

A tear leaks out of Joe’s left eye and into Nicky’s shoulder. 

They lie together in silence for a while, acclimatizing.

Then, Joe’s stomach rumbles.

Nicky pulls away, eyes narrowed. “Don’t think I don’t remember you saying you starve yourself for your job,” he warns. “I _will_ feed you. You can always find another job, you only get one body, and it is so lovely that I will not have you hurting it.”

Something warm spreads in Joe’s chest and he finds himself agreeing mindlessly. 

“Good,” Nicky says. “Then I will go and order us a pizza and we can eat it in bed. If you want me to stay tonight, of course.”

“Have I not been clear?” Joe asks, aghast. “I want you to stay forever.”

“Careful,” Nicky says, sliding out of bed. “Or I will.”

“Please?” Joe calls after him. 

Nicky’s gone for a long moment, but Joe hears water running and assumes he’s getting cleaned up, so he reaches under the bed for the gym shorts he had on before and digs his phone out the pocket.

Nile has sent him twenty-six text messages, the first of which are, in order: 

_ WHAT. _

_WHO._

_WHY._

_WHEN._

_ANDY had to tell me about this mystery guy?_

_ ANDYYY??? _

Joe blinks, and then texts back. _What are you talking about?_

_ check ur insta, dummy _

Joe tabs over to Instagram.

The new video is doing ridiculously well. It’s only been up a few hours, and these might be the best numbers he’s seen in that time. For all Andy has no idea what she’s doing, technologically, she has an eye for form, and she got the right angles on him every time. 

More than that, she left in the bits at the beginning where he makes faces at the camera and tells her how to use it, and the bit at the end where he spots Nicky on the other side of the gym and waves like an idiot.

Probably she just didn’t know how to cut them out.

Possibly she thought the video was better with them in.

Either way, for the first time Joe can remember, his comments section is not mostly emojis.

@juicy-lucy wrote, _find u a man who looks at u like joe looks at this nicky guy_.

Two hundred separate people have liked that comment.

Just below that, another fitness Instagrammer Joe actually met when he was in London three months ago to sign a contract with a sponsor wrote, _hey joe, this is super cool. thanks for actually talking about how hard it is to prep for shirtless shoots, i feel like people think guys are just supposed to look like that naturally lol. mad props for just not doing it, you look great._

A whole bunch of people have replied to that comment with links to articles about Hugh Jackman passing out after shirtless shoots, or Zac Efron having an epiphany over carbs on some Netflix special.

Even more people have left comments on the video saying things like, _hey, i follow you for your workout tips not your abs, don’t skip out on fish and chips for me_.

A lot, and Joe really can not overstate how many, have left comments just saying _Nicky???_ followed by the eyes emoji.

One of the most-liked comments under the video says, _this video is pure serotonin. never seen you look so happy, joe._

It’s been a really emotional day, so Joe can’t really be blamed that he just starts crying. 

“What kind of pizza do you like?” Nicky asks. “Please don’t say Hawaiian, I try very hard not to be that kind of Italian snob, but there are lines-- Joe? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Joe tells him. “I just. You know I got into Instagram because my friend Nile said it would be a long con, you know. Show off my body and get people interested in learning about healthy living and maybe even my art. I think maybe she was wrong.” He hands Nicky his phone.

Nicky sits down at the edge of the bed, scrolling through the comments.

When he's finished, he sets the phone on the bedside table. "Have you never posted your art?" He asks.

"Too chickenshit," Joe tells him. 

Nicky gives him a look. "This from the man who told me my kiss would haunt his dreams after our first date."

"Fair," Joe admits. 

"What are you going to do about all these people asking who I am?" Nicky asks.

Joe sighs. "Good question. I think there's three options." He swings his legs over the side of the bed to sit beside Nicky. "Option one is I ignore it. That would be fine. Option two is telling the whole world about you."

"Sounds like you don't like that?" Nicky asks. His voice is carefully neutral.

"I want to tell the whole world about you," Joe says. "By that, I mean, I want to call Nile, and my parents, and my sisters, and my friend Andy who runs the gym. I don't know how I feel about all the followers on Instagram I haven't ever even met."

"Oh." Nicky looks over at him. "I hadn't thought of it like that."

"Yeah," Joe says. "They mean well, but it's a lot of attention, and it can get hard to remember that who we are together on camera might not be who we are off."

"Like how on-camera Joe doesn't smile enough," Nicky says.

"He's working on that."

"So what's option three?"

"Well," Joe says. "I stop being so chickenshit about my art."

Nicky smiles. "That sounds good. You'll have to explain it. After we order pizza. You're still starving."

"Oh right," Joe laughs.

By the time the pizza gets there (not Hawaiian), Joe's posted an artful shot of his painting of the café, with Nicky working the till. He's small enough on the painting that no one would necessarily recognize him off of it unless they knew him already.

He accompanies it with the text, _Thank you everyone for your kind words about the last video. Eventually, I'm going to talk about the whole issue around shirtless shoots and why, honestly, they haven't been much fun in the past. For now, let me show you Nicky - one of three paintings I've done of him in the last week, at least. I'd appreciate it if you respect our privacy and don't try to find him in real life just yet!_

Then, he turns off his phone, puts it in the drawer of his bedside table, and draws Nicky back into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was Nicky really also sleeping? Or was he lying there, trapped in Joe's arms, so incandescently happy he couldn't even consider moving? We may never know.
> 
> Only the epilogue left to go! I didn't actually do this that intentionally, but the the first seven chapters of this take place in about the time I took to post them, so there's some symmetry. Also, you know, secret admirers to lovers speedrun.


	8. Chapter 8

#### eight months later

Nicky takes a deep breath, surveying the living room.

It’s empty, save for the couch, Cow, and Duck.

(“We can’t put them in a box, hayati,” Joe had argued. “How could they breathe?”)

Everything else is already in the moving van downstairs.

“I still think it’s silly to get a moving van for two streets,” Joe says from the doorway.

Nicky looks over at him. He’s wearing a pink, sleeveless tank top, a backwards baseball cap and sunglasses, and he’s chewing gum. He looks like exactly the sort of man Nicky would never have approached, this time last year. Then he grins, and his dimples show up, and Nicky has to physically restrain himself from falling on his knees just one last time in this apartment.

He settles for saying, “We can’t all be as strong and powerful as you, amore.”

From behind Joe, Nile makes a retching noise.

* * *

  
Nicky met Nile about eighteen hours after he and Joe became lovers.

She showed up at his café, hot on Joe’s heels, only two hours after he had (regretfully) left Joe’s warm bed and his warm arms and his molten eyes, because he had had to go to work; the days of the week sadly didn’t change just because the earth had moved under Nicky’s feet last night.

Getting through the day was an unbearable mix of white-hot excitement when Nicky remembered that Joe was his, that they were lovers, that Joe _loved him_ , and a terrible slog when he remembered how long he had to work today, how long he had to go until he could see Joe again.

He was in one of the latter phases, bending down gingerly to rearrange the pastries and trying not to wince too obviously because he was still sore, when the bell over the door tinkled.

“Miss me?” Joe asked from the doorway, eyes twinkling with good humor.

Nicky could feel his own face stretch into something really, truly undignified. “Every second,” he assured.

Joe leaned over the counter to kiss him, clearly aiming for a little peck.

That had been about when Nicky remembered that he had said he hadn’t approached Nicky because he didn’t want to harass him in his place of work. Nicky wanted to be very clear about how welcome harassment would be in future, so long as the place was empty.

Nicky got a grip on Joe’s shirt, stopped him from pulling away and kissed him properly.

A wolf-whistle pulled them apart.

“Right,” Joe said, a little bashfully. “This is my friend Nile, she wanted to make sure I didn’t make you up.”

Nicky looked over Joe’s shoulder to see a young woman looking very amused indeed. “Damn,” she said. “Andy was not kidding. When’s the wedding, lovebirds?”

Joe winced, and he opened his mouth in a way Nicky had seen him do several times already to mitigate something he viewed as embarrassing.

“I always wanted to marry in the spring,” Nicky said thoughtfully, and Nile laughed.

* * *

  
“This is a momentous day,” Joe tells Nile. “You’re going to have to let us be a little extra.”

“Oh, today I have to let you be extra,” Nile repeats. “Today. Not every day of your lives since the second you met. Besides, how big of a change can moving in together even be? How many nights have you even spent apart since you first got together?”

The answer to that question is three, Nicky knows, but he’s not going to give her the satisfaction of answering. Still, he and Joe both look over to Cow and Duck automatically.

* * *

  
They had been together two months when Joe had to go to London for half a week to see an investor about an opportunity to have his art displayed as part of an exhibition. Ever since Joe had switched his once-weekly jog and chat session to a paint and chat session, he’d been getting more and more inquiries about his art, and Nicky couldn’t be more proud.

It didn’t especially mean he wanted to be parted from Joe.

Not even for three nights.

But they would make do.

It was Joe who would suffer more, anyway, away from home in an unfamiliar bed, with no Nicky to hold onto, which was why Nicky got him Cow.

“Have fun,” Nicky told him the morning he was due to leave, before he had to go to work himself. “Enjoy London, I know you’ll do wonderfully and be a world-famous artist in no time.”

Joe pouted, still in bed, stretched out under the sheets and delightfully tempting.

“I will be very lonely,” Joe promised. “And I will not have fun.”

“Ah, but you won’t be alone,” Nicky promised, and tossed the little stuffed animal of an alpine cow at Joe’s prone form. “I got you a friend. To remember me by, I’m told we have a lot in common.”

“You little _shit_ ,” Joe said in joy and wonder.

He turned the tables on Nicky that night, posting a selfie of himself in the hotel bed in London on Instagram, shirtless but mostly hidden by the sheets, smiling bashfully and with his arm wrapped around the cow.

Nicky’s heart physically hurt with how much he wanted to be the one in Joe’s arms.

Joe came back two days later, very poorly rested but successful, and when he opened his bag, there were two stuffed animals.

“He needed a friend,” was how Joe explained it, and ever since then, Cow and Duck had lived on the couch and Nicky and Joe hadn’t had to sleep apart.

* * *

  
Nicky’s favorite barista -- only barista, though not only employee, now that he’s hired Lykon to help him with the cooking -- is driving the van. This is probably because it’s the least amount of work he could possibly do to help with this endeavor. Booker is many things, but energetic is not one of them. It’s possibly why he’s the only person in Wales Nicky trusts to make a decent cup of coffee.

He and Joe walk, hand in hand, the two streets between the apartment Joe is leaving behind and Nicky’s apartment - their apartment - above the café.

Joe swings their joined hands so energetically he can lift Nicky’s to his mouth to press a kiss to it.

“You romantic,” Nicky accuses.

“I’m told it’s incurable,” Joe says innocently. Curls of his chest hair peek out over the top of his tank top, offset by the silver chain of Joe’s necklace. Nicky had convinced him to not wax it all off immediately a few months ago, and he’s hoping Joe will just -- forget that that was something he used to do.

“You’re thinking about how to turn me into a bear again,” Joe accuses.

“I was not,” Nicky defends, “and anyway, ‘bears’ are an antiquated term for a certain type--”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Nile,” Joe says. “I mean you’re turning me into an actual teddy bear, you’re just going to feed me and let me grow all the hair on my body out until I exist only to be cuddly.”

“Ah yes,” Nicky drawls, “I am ruining your, let me see, completely flat stomach, ridiculously toned arms, legs you used to run a half-marathon last week, am I missing anything?”

“How will I show off my pecs for my adoring audience if you have me growing hair all over them?” Joe asks, ignoring entirely that he’s mostly shifted to in-depth discussions on body image and healthy living when he does workout videos, and that his followers really, really like the chest hair. (They have good taste. Nicky likes it too, likes to nose into it, and rest his head on Joe’s chest.)

Nicky unlocks the back door of the café so they can start the process of moving in Joe’s things. “Maybe I like having a part of you that’s just mine.”

“All of me is just yours,” Joe says, and they had been teasing each other, but his tone is so earnest and sweet in the way only Joe can be that Nicky can’t resist pulling him in to kiss him up against the doorway.

They’re rudely interrupted by the honk of the moving van’s horn.

“Now taking bets,” Nile says from out the open passenger’s seat window. “Will the honeymoon ever end?”

“You could get married at the gym,” Quynh enthuses immediately, poking her head out from the backseat. “Great PR.”

“Not at the café,” Booker adds quickly.

“It’s my café,” Nicky protests, insulted.

“Children,” Andy says calmly, climbing out from the back of the van with the first of Joe’s boxes. “They haven’t even been dating a year. Let’s not put the cart before the horse, and let them enjoy this phase.”

* * *

  
Joe’s favorite thing that Nicky cooked was still his potato salad.

It made Nicky a little crazy, months into their relationship, that he could make a perfect béarnaise, could roast lamb to rosy completion, could make the most decadent, creamy desserts, and Joe’s favorite would still be that potato salad. He’d tried everything.

“I can’t help it, habibi,” Joe had said with a grin. “I’m a simple man with simple pleasures. Anyway, everything you cook is delicious, why should it matter what my favorite is?”

“Because it’s your favorite,” Nicky had said, as if that should be obvious. “Now go. You have three more paintings to finish before the exhibition, remember?”

Joe had sighed and had left to finish his work for the day and Nicky had put his plan into motion.

At seven, he was almost ready and Joe was due home -- due back, back to Nicky’s apartment, not home (not yet) -- any second.

“Nicolò?” Joe asked, kicking off his shoes in the entryway. “Are you home?”

“Out in a second,” Nicky called distractedly, lighting the last candles. “Check your phone.”

“Huh?”

“Check your phone!”

He’d written and rewritten the text in advance, and felt kind of stupid writing it in Joe’s DMs, like he hadn’t since those first few chaotic, magical days. But then, they’ve all been magical since then.

 ** _Joe, this may be the last time I write to you like this,_** he’d written. _**I hope it is, anyway. But this is how we first found each other (sort of), and I would be remiss to not look back before I look forward. And Joe, when I look forward, all I see is you.**_

“Nicky?” Joe asked breathlessly from the living room.

“Joe,” Nicky answered, carefully balancing the tray as he carried it to the coffee table.

“You made my favorite,” Joe said softly.

“I did,” Nicky said, spreading the candles out on the table between them.

He hadn’t just made potato salad, in fairness. He’d made a full meal, but knowing himself, he had to do this before the appetizer.

“What’s going on?” Joe asked, taking in the lights, the salad, the stack of plates on the tray between them.

“I asked you, once,” Nicky said. “To share my table.”

He lifted the salad off the stack of plates and handed Joe his.

“Joe,” he said, lifting the last plate off and setting it front of himself. “Share everything else?”

Joe’s eyes were trained on him, shining already with unshed tears, and he knew what this was, he had to - he always knew what Nicky meant - but he wasn't looking down and he kind of needed to.

Nicky gestured towards the tray, guided Joe’s gaze to the ring.

 _I should have put on music_ , Nicky thought in the ensuing silence.

“If it’s too soon,” he said, “that’s fine. I know six months is nothing--”

“Nicky,” Joe gasped out. “It’s not that, I just -- can’t talk.”

Nicky almost joked -- _that’s a first, Joe_ \-- but there were tears spilling down Joe’s cheeks and he was staring at Nicky like he’d never seen him before.

Shaking, Joe stretched out his hand, and Nicky slipped the ring on it.

* * *

  
“Thank fuck,” Booker sighs as he sinks down onto the couch where Cow and Duck have once again taken up their customary place. “How did you have so much stuff in that apartment, Joe?”

Joe blinks. “That one van we rented was only half full,” he says. “It wasn’t even a truck.”

“Still,” Booker groans. “You bought beer, right?”

“I wonder,” Nicky says drily. “After you said, and I quote, _I will only help you move if there’s pizza and beer at the end_.”

He hands Booker the warmest bottle he can find, and then gets two from the very back of the fridge for himself and Joe.

“Hey,” Nile says, clinking her bottle to his. “I know we tease you guys a lot, but you know we’re so happy for you?”

“Speak for yourself,” Booker grumbles, but he can’t entirely hide his smile.

“And if you want me to stop teasing you about how fast you’re moving, I totally will,” Nile continues valiantly.

“That’s the post-workout endorphins talking,” Andy says, opening her beer and draining half in one go. “She’ll have forgotten she said that by tomorrow.” Then, she belches, loudly.

“Sexy,” Quynh says, kissing her cheek.

“Happy moving in together,” Nile toasts, raising her beer now that everyone has one, even though they’ve all started drinking anyway. “May it be the first of many milestones.”

* * *

  
“Happy, husband?” Nicky asked as they left the courthouse.

Joe kissed the side of his head. “With you, always.”

There would come a day when Joe saying things like that wouldn’t make Nicky’s belly go liquid, he was sure. It just wasn't this day.

“So,” Joe said. “How shall we celebrate? Fountains of champagne? A trip around the world?”

Nicky laughed. “I think we need to finish packing up your apartment first, love. Move-in day is tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Joe pouted. “Be sensible. I will surprise you with a champagne fountain someday, though.”

Nicky kissed his nose, and then his mouth. “I hope you keep surprising me.”

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you really thought I was gonna write a modern au fic not involving marriage, secret relationship something or the combination thereof? really? it may happen someday, but today is not that day. 
> 
> Andy was their witness btw, she absolutely knows they went and did that but because she is a) not on social media and b) secretly very mushy inside, she's not going to tell their friends until they all stop teasing Joe and Nicky about the speed run aspect of their relationship. Also they both wear their rings on necklaces b/c they both work with their hands.
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading and commenting and sharing this fic, it means a lot to me. I've been struggling through the last couple weeks at work and been just so low on energy, your responses have really made my week


End file.
